


Misfired

by LonelyThursday



Series: Jack Kelly: Infamous Crime Lord [1]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Mob, Arguing, Crimes & Criminals, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Gang Violence, Gangs, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of various crimes, Murder, Race is Jack's right hand man, Shooting, Spot is soft for his boyfriends, crime boss Jack, crime boss Spot, nothing is very graphig, they're criminals but they're soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26964337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonelyThursday/pseuds/LonelyThursday
Summary: Albert ends up getting shot and captured on what was supposed to be an easy raidPrequel to Chasing a Shadow, but either can be read as a standalone
Relationships: Spot Conlon/Albert DaSilva/Racetrack Higgins
Series: Jack Kelly: Infamous Crime Lord [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1967710
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Misfired

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: murder, bullet wounds, mentions of people trafficking, yelling in all caps
> 
> So this was a nine page doc, and the first about four pages are gang activity, then it takes a sharp turn into domestic fluff sooooo

**_Patrick:_ **  
_We still on for the game this weekend?_

**_Ryan:_ **  
_I’ll be there_

**_Jenny:_ **  
_Wouldn’t miss it_

**_Bertie:_ **  
_I’ll probably be a little late_

**_Ronnie:_ **   
_Been waiting all week for this game_

Albert stows the burner phone away in the bulletproof pocket Buttons had sewn into his tack pants, glancing around the back of the van to make sure no one was watching. It’s not like there’s anything suspicious or incriminating in the messages, but when you can’t be too careful when you’re surrounded by red-shirts. 

(‘Red-shirts’ is how Race — privately — refers the rookies Albert takes with him on raids)

The messages, though perfectly innocuous looking, are actually a code to make sure everyone is in position. If even one person is out of place when Albert reaches his destination, the whole operation could go downhill in a hurry.

The van stops, shaking Albert out of his thoughts. 

_Show time_

Albert’s the only veteran on the raid tonight, so all the red-shirts look to him to lead. He and the red-shirts silently climb out of the van. They’re in a dark alley behind a warehouse that is rumored to be receiving an unknown shipment for the Brooklyn Boys tonight. Turning to survey the surrounding buildings, Albert is just barely able to make out the glint off a sniper rifle. Of course he already knows that the snipers are in place, but it’s reassuring to have physical proof. 

He motions for the red-shirts to follow his lead as he heads towards a door leading into the warehouse. Albert makes a show of picking the lock, even though he _knows_ that the door’s already unlocked. After a few seconds of jimmying around in the lock, Albert makes a quiet _click_ and swings the door open. 

He leads the red-shirts down a quiet hallway until they’re right outside the main warehouse. Peaking around the corner, he can see Myron Hawkins, one of Brooklyn’s big dogs, standing near a stack of crates, supervising what must be about fifteen people unloading boxes from a truck. 

Albert pulls his gun out and signals for his squad to move further into the warehouse. Once everyone is in position, Albert fires the first shot, missing Hawkins’ head by inches. 

Chaos breaks out after that. 

Bullets fly. Red-shirts drop. Crates shatter. 

Some people try to escape, but they’re quickly dispatched by snipers. 

Albert makes sure to stay mostly covered, and only shoot the Brooklyn red-shirts, just in case. 

Everything is going well… until a bullet lodged itself into Albert’s arm. 

He drops his gun and stumbles back a few steps, leaving his hiding place and paying with another hit, this one to his side. A strong wave of pain washes over him and he feels his legs give out, but before he can hit the ground, a thin but solid arm wraps around his chest from behind, and another hand brings a knife up to his neck. 

“Hey, DaSilva,” a voice whispers in his ear. Albert stiffens, he knows that voice. 

“Leif,” Albert grunts in return, fighting against his darkening vision. 

“You and me is gonna go for a little walk,” Graves growls, half leading, half dragging Albert down the hall he originally came from. His consciousness is fading fast, and it doesn’t help that Graves is putting up an unforgiving pace. In the end, Graves is dragging Albert as dead weight in her arms. 

The last things Albert registers before he’s completely gone is the sound of a van door sliding open, and a sense of falling. Then nothing. 

**( >^.^)>**

Something’s beeping. 

“Race, turn off the alarm,” Albert tries to say, but it comes out as a mostly unintelligible groan. 

The beeping continues. 

Albert groans again and tries to throw his arms out to either hit the alarm clock, and/or hit his boyfriend, whichever is closer. 

‘Tries’ is the operative word because his left arm is stopped short by a sharp tug at his wrist before it can make it very far, and his right arm refuses to move at all. It’s starting to occur to him that this is _not_ his bedroom, and that beeping is _not_ an alarm. 

Albert’s eyes fly open, fully expecting the worst. There aren’t a lot of good scenarios that include being handcuffed to a hospital bed, but when his eyes focus on the dark gray ceiling and blood-splattered walls, he realizes that some scenarios are better than others. 

He wracks his brain trying to remember what he’d been doing before losing consciousness. He obviously isn’t with the Newsboys, because Jack wouldn’t have had him handcuffed to the bed. He’s not in a hospital because they wouldn’t have bloodstains on the walls. He’s not with the Queens, because _they_ wouldn’t have left him alive, let alone given him medical attention. 

And he’s definitely received medical attention. The reason his right arm can’t move is because it’s strapped to his chest in a sling and covered in bandages. His left arm, while also being handcuffed to the bed, has an IV and a heart monitor attached to it, and whatever’s in the IV must be the good stuff because he isn’t in _any_ pain, despite the fact that there’s obviously something wrong with his arm. 

Then it hits him. There’s only one gang on the East Coast who would give him medical — including pain meds — _and_ handcuff him to the bed. 

The Brooklyn Boys. 

Right, the raid, red-shirts, Graves. 

It’s all coming back to him. He got shot twice, Race is going to kill him, and that’s not even mentioning what _Spot_ is going to do to him. 

Albert groans again, this time resigned to leaving his arms where they are. 

The raid was always going to end with Albert being ‘captured’, but being shot was definitely not in the plan. 

They do this at least once a year, Jack and Spot. They both round up — or in Jack’s case, Race and Finch round up, because only the inner circle is allowed to be certain whether or not Jack Kelly is a real person, let alone know what he looks like — some of their cronies who have been weak, compromised, _treacherous._ They send these red-shirts to run guns, or do a raid, and they let them terminate each other. Any red-shirt that isn’t killed in the raid is picked off by snipers as soon as they set foot outside of the building. In this way, Jack and Spot help each other tie up loose ends. It’s mutually beneficial. 

And of course, Albert is almost always sent on these raids to make it look official to the red-shirts. 

But also, he’s sent on the raids so that his boyfriend can kidnap him, and his other boyfriend can get sent to do the ‘hostage negotiation’ (read: weekend off to do boyfriend stuff). 

“SPOT!” Albert yells, not appreciating being left alone in the medbay

The door opens almost immediately, but it’s not Spot that enters. 

“How ya feelin’, Albert?” Kenny asks kindly. 

Albert fights the urge to snap at him. Kenny’s just doing his job. “I feel fine, Kenny, but I guess that probably the drugs.”

“Good to see they’re doing their job,” Kenny confirms. 

“Where’s Spot?”

“He’s in a meeting, otherwise you _know_ he’d be here.” Kenny wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, but Albert focuses on a different part of his statement. 

“They started without me!?” He demands. Personally, he could take it or leave it Race and Spot’s weird hostage negotiation kink, but he’s still insulted that they’d do it without him. 

“No, he’s in a real meeting, Race isn’t even here yet.”

“Does he know I got shot?” Albert asks, raising an eyebrow incredulously. There’s _no way_ Race wouldn’t have come as quickly as he could if he knew Albert was hurt, so clearly no one told him. 

“Well, ah-” Kenny suddenly becomes very preoccupied with the reading on the heart monitor. 

“Kenny, who’s Spot meeting with?” Albert demands slowly. If Spot didn’t tell Race that Albert’s hurt, then it’s because Spot doesn't want Race here, and if Spot doesn't want Race here, then there’s something or some _one_ here that Spot doesn't want him to know about. 

Either way, Race is going to be pissed when he finds out that Albert got shot and Spot didn’t tell him. 

“He’s meeting with Snyder,” Kenny admits, still refusing to make eye contact. 

Albert’s blood runs cold. The last time he’d seen Snyder, he’d ended up in the hospital — a _real_ hospital — afterwards. The man is a monster of the worst kind, and anything he could possibly want with Spot is no good. That sick twisted grin still haunts his nightmares. 

He’s vaguely aware of the heart monitor speeding up, and of Kenny trying to talk to him, but all he can see is Spot accepting an offer to work with Snyder. Spot trafficking people as well as drugs and weapons. Snyder haunting his waking hours as well as his nightmares…

Kenny yells something, and the world quickly closes in on him. 

**< (^.^<)**

The next time he wakes up is different. 

There’s no beeping this time, and no handcuffs, but his right arm is still in a sling. 

Even with his eyes closed, Albert can tell he’s not in the medbay anymore. For starters, the bed is softer — and bigger, if that fact that someone is plastered to his right side is anything to go off. 

The person is clearly aware that Albert’s been shot as they’re trying their hardest to avoid his arm, and their hand is resting on his thigh instead of his hip, avoiding getting too close to his second wound. 

It’s dark when Albert opens his eyes, what little light there is is coming from the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock on the other side of the king-sized bed. It’s dim, but it’s enough to tell that he’s in Spot’s room, and that the person breathing warm puffs of air against his neck is Race. 

He tries to shake Race awake, but a small tug to the skin of his left arm stops him. Turning to his left, he can faintly make out the IV stand next to the bed. Albert groans. It makes sense that he’s still hooked up to an IV — seeing as he was shot twice and all — but he’d _like_ to be able to move _one_ of his arms. 

“Al?” A soft lamp clicks on from the other side of the bed. “Are you awake?”

Spot sits up and leans over Race, entering Albert’s sight lines. 

“Hey,” Albert croaks. _Shit_ his throat is dry. 

“Sit tight, I’ll getcha some water.” The bed shifts as Spot gets up. 

In his reclined state, Albert can’t see Spot’s movements across the room, and his footsteps are so quiet that he can’t track him. Only a loud _creak_ and subtle increase in brightness let him know when Spot gets to the door. 

“Hmm?” Race groans against his neck. 

“Go b’ck ta sleep, R’cer,” Albert mumbles around his dry throat, hoping Race isn’t too awake. 

His words have the opposite effect as Race shoots up a second later. 

“Albie!” He whisper-yells. 

Albert lets out a pained hiss as Race’s movements jostle his wounds. Race’s face immediately goes apologetic. 

“Sorry.”

Albert shrugs his good shoulder and grits his teeth in an attempt to stamp down the wave of pain. 

“Race.” Spot returns to the room, water glass in hand. “I didn’t mean ta wake you.”

He closes the door behind him, cutting off most of the light for a second before Race turns on the bedside lamp. Albert can’t see Spot from where he is, but he _can_ see Race’s unimpressed glare. 

_Oh,_ Albert thinks. _He’s mad._

It’s not really a shock, if he’d given it any thought then he would have been expecting it, but he hadn’t thought of it. He’d thought of it when Kenny told him, but since waking up in Spot’s bed, he hadn’t given it any thought. 

Likely, Race and Spot did most of their actual yelling earlier, when Albert was unconscious. That doesn’t mean Race is ready to forgive yet. And he _clearly_ still isn’t. 

“Uh, I’ve-I’ve got the water,” Spot continues awkwardly, raising the glass to show them. 

Race continues to glare. 

“Right,” Spot shifts his focus back to Albert, clearly sensing that he’s not going to get anywhere with Race at this time. 

Even with a bendy straw, it’s hard to drink while lying back. If he were in a hospital bed — a real hospital bed, not the one they had in the medbay — then they could raise his head a little, but as it is, they likely can’t maneuver Albert into sitting position without causing him more pain. So lying in his back it is. 

“Thanks,” Albert says once the glass is empty. 

Spot nods absently as he places the glass on Albert’s bedside table. “Sorry you got shot.”

Albert shrugs his good shoulder, wincing slightly at the pull of the IV. “‘S part of the job.”

“You know he waited _twelve_ hours to tell me you were shot?” Race says. His tone is casual, but his face isn’t. “Twelve _fucking hours!”_

“You usually don’t come until at least fourteen hours later,” Albert points out. Race turns his glare on Albert instead of Spot. 

“You usually haven’t been _shot!”_ He hisses. 

“Look,” Spot butts in, causing Race to focus his glare back on him. “I said I was sorry, what else do ya want?”

“I WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHY YOU DIDN’T TELL ME SOONER!”

Spot winces, and not just at Race’s volume. 

“Had a meetin’,” he mutters. 

“With _who?”_ Race demands. Spot refuses to make eye contact, choosing to instead inspect Albert’s IV stand. 

“Snyder,” Albert answers after almost a full minute of tense silence where he could practically _hear_ Race’s anger mounting. 

_“YOU WERE MEETING WITH SNYDER!?”_

Spot opens his mouth to answer, but gets cut off when something hits the bedroom door from the outside with a _thump._ Likely, it was Raf, or Hotshot throwing a pillow to tell them to shut up. 

_Fat lot of good it’ll do ‘em,_ Albert thinks. There isn’t a whole lot that’ll stop a screaming match between Race and Spot. Albert himself has long since learned to just sit back and wait for their anger to burn out. It always does. 

“I DON’T HAVE TA TELL YOU EVERYTHIN’ I DO!” Spot yells back. 

_Nice, that’ll definitely get Race to calm down. Way to fucking_ go, _Spot._

“I’M NOT ASKING YOU TO TELL ME EVERYTHING! I’M ASKING YOU TO TELL ME WHEN YOU’RE MEETING WITH A MAN THAT MADE MY LIFE A LIVING HELL FOR _SIX. FUCKING. YEARS!”_

_That’s fair._

“I DIDN’T WANTCHA TA WORRY!”

_I wonder if I can get the IV out with my arm in a sling?_

“WELL FAT LOT OF GOOD _THAT_ DID YOU!”

Another _thump_ on the door, heavier this time. _Probably a shoe._

“YOU WEREN’T EVEN SUPPOSED TA KNOW!”

_Because everyone knows that_ that _makes it ok._

“I WASN’T SUPPOSED TO KNOW _WHAT?_ THAT OUR _BOYFRIEND_ GOT SHOT?”

_Sheesh, you’d think I was_ dying _or something._

“HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TA _GET_ SHOT!”

_Tell me about it._

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU EVEN TALKING TO SNYDER ABOUT!?”

_Oh shit, yeah. What_ was _Spot talking to Snyder about?_

“I TOLD HIM THAT IF HE SET ONE PINKYTOE ON MY TURF AGAIN, I’D USE HIS SKULL AS A PUNCH BOWL!”

_But the punch would just pour out through the eye sockets,_ Albert eyes the IV, wondering exactly _how_ high he is right now, and why can’t it be enough to sleep through this?

“WELL WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME!?”

_I thought we already went over this?_

“BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANTCHA ANYWHERE NEAR THAT BASTARD AGAIN!”

_Cute, I guess?_

“I FUCKING LOVE YOU, YOU DUMBASS BALLSACK!”

_Well then._

“I LOVE YA TOO, YA FERAL SHITBAG!”

_Fight over then? Unless they’re planning on shouting abusive endearments at each other._

Unfortunately, they are, in fact, planning on shouting abusive endearments at each other, though they do — thankfully — lower their volume.

Albert must end up falling asleep some time during this exchange because the next thing he knows, the alarm clock is going off. 

“Hrnggg,” Race groans against Albert’s neck, having clearly gone back to using him as a teddy bear sometime in the middle of the night. “Why the fuck can’t you just use the alarm on your phone?”

“Cuz ya always turn off my phone alarm,” Spot answers from the other side of the bed where the alarm continues to beep. “At least this way ya can’t turn it off.”

“You know, one day I’m going to figure out how your dumb analog technology works, and then I’ll never have to wake up to your stupid alarm ever again.”

“This ain’t analog,” Spot replies, finally shutting the alarm off. “And I can’t jus’ sleep through important meetin’s because _you_ want ta sleep in a little more.”

“You better not have a goddamn _meeting_ today,” Race grumbles, letting go of Albert and turning over. 

“Is there going to be a point where you guys stop fighting?” Albert groans. 

“Never,” Spot and Race say at the same time.

“How ya feelin’?” Race asks as he leans down to press a chaste kiss on Albert’s cheek. 

“Like I’ve been lying down for too long,” Albert groans, kicking his legs up for emphasis. The action pulls at his side uncomfortably, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he’s not about to let his boyfriends think it’s worse than it is. 

“Well that ain’t changin’ anytime soon,” Spot informs him, circling around the bed to kiss Albert’s other cheek. 

“ _Nooooo!”_ Albert whines, hoping to pout his boyfriends into submission. It might work, Spot is a huge softy, and Race is terrible at following doctors’ orders. 

“Sorry, babe,” Spot shrugs, looking a little apologetic — but not nearly enough for Albert to be able to exploit it. “Kenny will come check ya out later, but you’re definitely not bein’ allowed on your feet until Monday at the earliest.”

“What’s today?” It was Wednesday night — maybe early Thursday morning — when he got shot, and it’s been at _least_ one whole day. It had likely been only a few hours when he first woke up in the medbay, but he has no idea how much time passed between then and now. 

“Saturday,” Race answers. “Kenny said you woke up in the medbay on Thursday, and then you woke up again last night. This is the third time you’ve woken up.”

Albert nods. Two and half days isn’t too bad, though it _does_ mean he still has another two days until Monday. 

“I’ll go get us some breakfast,” Spot says before turning to Race. “You make sure he stays on the bed.”

“Sure, give me the hard job,” Race grumbles, but Spot’s already out the door. 

Albert turns a pleading look on Race as soon as the door’s closed. 

“No,” Race answers immediately. “You got shot twice, I’m not letting you get up.”

“C’mon! One was in the _arm!_ I’m fine,” Albert cajoles. Race levels him with an unimpressed look. 

“And one was in the _side!_ I’m a responsible adult-”

“Since when?”

“- and I’m not letting you up.”

Albert groans. “Can you at least take the IV out? I hate the way it pulls at my arm.”

“You can ask Kenny if you can take it out later, for now, it stays.”

“Worst boyfriend ever,” Albert mutters under his breath. 

Race just rolls his eyes and jabs him lightly in the leg. “I’ll have you know that I’m the _best_ boyfriend, thank you very much.”

“Can I _at least_ sit up?”

“That should be okay, I think,” Race muses. “As long as we’re careful about it. But let’s wait for Spot to get back, it’ll probably hurt a lot less if there’s two of us helping you up.”

“Fine,” Albert concedes, at least it’s something. 

The two of them sit in silence for a while. Albert glaring at the ceiling while Race runs his fingers through his hair. 

“I’m sorry,” Albert says eventually. 

“Why?” Race doesn’t stop moving his fingers, but he does meet Albert’s eyes. 

“I got shot,” Albert shrugs his good shoulder. “I scared you.”

“It’s not your fault. Part of the job, right?” Race smiles sarcastically. It’s one hell of a profession they’ve chosen, but it was a choice they both made, fully aware of the hazards. 

“It kinda ruined the weekend,” Albert suggests, but Race just laughs. 

“Half the fun is being loud enough to keep Raf up all night, and we still did that. Different method, but we did it!”

Albert rolls his eyes. “She’s going to kill you one day.”

“Who’s going ta kill Race one day?” Spot asks as he enters the room with a service cart full of food. 

“Wow the room service here is great!” Race comments, swiping a croissant from the cart. Spot glares at him but doesn’t comment. 

“Raf is going to kill him,” Albert answers, eyeing the cart, but making no move to grab any food himself. “What kind of mob boss gets their own breakfast?”

“Yeah, shouldn’t you have servants or somethin’?” Race asks around a mouthful of pastry. 

“I should have left you two in the street where I found you,” Spot grouses, not that either of them would ever believe him. 

“We weren’t in a street!” Race objects. 

“Yeah! We were in a field!” Albert agrees

“And we’re like swans, we mate for life!”

“You’re stuck with us, Spottie!”

“What a torturous existence I lead.” Spot rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. He wouldn’t have it any other way, and his boyfriends know it.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote part of this before I wrote Chasing a Shadow, and then after I wrote that I can back to this and I’m like oh that could be in the same universe 
> 
> so the texts at the beginning are basically  
> Finch (Patrick): Is everyone in position?  
> Hot Shot (Ryan): I am  
> Sniper (Jenny): Yes  
> Albert (Bertie): We're almost there  
> Myron (Ronnie): We're here
> 
> Any and all specific crimes committed by Snyder against any of the newsies is up to your own interpretation except that Snyder was the foster father of Jack and Race for a while, and he's never done anything directly to Spot (just to people Spot cares about)
> 
> Wear a Mask  
> Wash Your Hands  
> Don't be Stupid  
> Black Lives Matter  
> VOTE (unless you're under 18)  
> Seriously Vote  
> I Mean It  
> I'm Proud of You (unless you CAN vote but DON'T)


End file.
